by Greg Bear
“If you act quickly, you will win freedom, be home in a few hours with your families.” With a wry smile he said, “Some of you might be back at work by morning. I’m asking you to risk pain and injury now, to avoid dying in the games on Ashula or the mines on Peridan. The choice is yours.”
“What do we do?” asked a man in the far corner.
“Watch the stairs and if you see any movement, let me know.”
Flandry moved to one corner of the cage most removed from the stairs and said, “Two fasteners.” He tore at the hem of his cloak and produced a small tool. A white hot flame jetted out and he cut through a restraining bolt above his head. “Don’t touch this cage until I tell you.” He knelt and cut partially through the lower fastener. He moved quickly through the press to the opposite junction and cut the top fastener and halfway through the lower. “Now, anyone knocks this over before we’re ready and I’ll kill him.
“Wait until I act, then hit these bars hard. Any guards left standing, swarm them. Some of you will be hurt, but you’ll survive shock sticks and clubs. Keep them from unholstering their weapons.”
“But—” began another man.
“Shut up,” returned Flandry. “We are doing this. Help or get out of the way, but if you help, we all stand a better chance.”
Three rapid clicks sounded in Flandry’s ear, followed by another three. That was Celia’s unofficial code for, “Are you crazy?” and he chose to ignore it.
The prisoners returned to quiet as the far doors opened and two guards appeared at the bottom of the stairs. They moved lazily towards the crouching men, who remained silent. One reached out and wiggled the cage door, testing the lock, and Flandry prayed to whatever gods of hopelessness might be attending him that the iron cage didn’t fall apart.
One prisoner begged, “Please, I have a family.”
“No talking!” shouted the guard in heavily accented Terran, then paused a moment, seeing nothing more than what he expected, and left.
Spiracos was a fringe world, but located at a trading nexus that was more useful than vital. It was therefore constantly verging on being important, yet never quite reaching industrial, financial, or political critical mass. It was predominately human, with the occasional sapient from other races, but save for a slightly lower gravity and two moons, could have been a twin of ancient Terra.
Reaching up to the seam of his robe where right shoulder met hood, he pressed a tiny bead and whispered, “Ready?”
A faint voice in his ear answered, “Standing by.”
Raising his voice again, just enough for the other prisoners to hear, he said, “Be ready. Act as beaten dogs until I move.”
Flandry hoped he had driven home the point; he had little concern for his own safety, but he had a mission, and turning this slave raid on its ear was proving to be exactly the vehicle for completing his mission. Turning to Laren, he said, “Can I count on you?”
The man returned a half-smile and nod and Flandry knew that his instincts were serving him again. “Military?” Laren looked like a veteran. His hair was shot through with gray, but his eyes were clear blue, and he had a hard edge to him that came from more than years of laboring.
“Conscripted at eighteen,” he said. “Second Marines LURPS.”
Flandry couldn’t have been more pleased. Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol members were resourceful, deadly, not particularly battle-happy, and as difficult to kill as a cockroach. “Early out?”
“Lost a leg at Vindabar to a Merseian sniper. The Empire gratefully grew me another, but by then the war was declared over and I was given a bonus and cut loose. Apparently, they didn’t need someone whose only skill was being a sneaky bastard behind enemy lines.” He looked into Flandry’s eyes a moment, then said, “You?”
“I’m with the IG.”
Wide-eyed shock was followed moments later by a broad grin. “Deputy Inspector General? Here?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you more after we get out of here.” He reached up and activated his com and asked, “Anything?”
“Just about to contact you. Heavy transport dropping out of orbit above your location. No chatter with planetary approach control, so they’re definitely off the books.”
“Someone was bribed,” agreed Flandry. “Let me know when you see shuttles coming down, then wait for my signal.”
“About five minutes.” The com fell silent.
Laren said, “You have people outside.” It wasn’t a question. “How many?”
“Enough.”
The distant sound of heavy engines came faintly through the heavy walls of the underground pen. What had originally been housed in this warehouse was unknown, but it made an ideal location for human traffickers to keep their prisoners for transport off-world.
A dull thud announced the landing of the shuttle. Flandry guessed that it was a probably an old military transport, given the number of slaves they wished to move. He idly wondered where the female slaves were being held, but assumed they’d be moved by a different craft. It was academic; if things went according to plan, he’d soon find them and cut them loose.
When he heard the sound of boots coming down the stairs, he whispered, “Soon!”
Five slavers appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and crossed the room. Four took up equally spaced positions behind the one with the key to the cage. All were dressed as civilians, but, with a slight nod to Laren, Flandry identified the two on the left as former military. Their stance and the alertness in their eyes was in stark contrast to the almost bored expressions and lax behavior of the other three. Laren nodded in return and with a slight motion of his head indicated he’d go after the left-most guard.
Flandry waited. He gently reached out and tugged slightly on Laren’s arm, signaling the need to hang back and be among the last out of the cage. He needed as much chaos as possible before they struck.
The first guard reached the cell door, his hand dropping to a nasty-looking shock-stick at his belt. Flandry assumed its original purpose was directing livestock, then conceded that, from the slavers point of view, it was still being used to direct livestock. “I open door, then you come out! Slowly!” he shouted in a heavily accented Terran.
Flandry reached up to his com unit and whispered, “Now!”
Within seconds, all five guards looked startled as they received a message from above: a Terran Imperial Heavy Cruiser had just dropped out of FTL into a high orbit above the cargo ship, flanked by two smaller ships, probably Fast Frigates or Heavy Destroyers from their energy signatures.
The guard closest to Flandry glanced away to see how those behind were reacting to the warning. Flandry shouted, “Now!”
Every man in the front hit the cage wall, and, after a brief hesitation, it gave way; the first guard was crushed under the metal and the charging men, his cries of pain stilled within seconds.
Without hesitation, Flandry took a direct path straight at the second guard on the left, launching himself into a flying kick that caught the man on the point of the jaw, spinning him completely around. Kneeling next to the prone, stunned guard, Flandry drove his fingers into the man’s windpipe. The man gasped as he brought his hands up to his throat, his eyes widening as he suddenly was without breath. Flandry reached down and deftly unholstered the man’s sidearm and pulled it out. He thumbed off the safety and shot the guard in the chest.
Laren’s guard took a step towards Flandry, and the former Marine jumped forward, wrapping his left arm around the man’s neck, while kicking backward with one foot against the guard’s leg. He took him down with a sudden kneeling motion, savagely smashing the guard’s head against the stone floor. The sound was lost in the sudden upheaval as the other prisoners swarmed the two remaining guards. Insuring that the man stayed down, Laren rose and crushed the guard’s throat with his boot heel.
The noise of discharging shock-sticks and men screaming in pain punctuated angry shouts and the sound of fists meeting flesh. Flandry was efficiency personified. He
dodged through the melee, which was now firmly in hand.
The other guards were already down, being kicked to death by the prisoners. Flandry pushed quickly through the prisoners and ruthlessly shot both in the head. He considered that he was doing them a favor.
Flandry said, “Everyone wait here until we see who is left above ground. Who has military training?”
Four men held up their hands and Flandry instructed the first three to pick up the dead guards’ remaining weapons.
He motioned for them to fall in behind him and headed up the steps to the surface, slowly, not wanting unpleasant surprises. He saw two men, technicians from their garb, lingering by the open cargo hold of the shuttle. It would have been a cramped ride for that many men, Flandry thought, as he walked straight towards the two men. The first one to notice him looked surprised, but by the time he was able to speak, Flandry had his pistol leveled at the man’s nose. “How many?” he asked.
The other technician was slow to realize that this wasn’t a guard returning to start loading prisoners, and his hesitation cost him a blow to the side of the head that dropped him to his knees. “How many?” repeated Flandry to the other tech.
“One inside and the pilot,” answered the second technician. For his troubles, he was rewarded with a blow that dropped him unconscious to the dirt. Flandry then kicked the first tech in the point of the jaw.
Flandry took one step into the light cast by the open hatch and shot the remaining guard. He hurried up to the small flight deck and put his gun barrel against the pilot’s neck. The pilot was smart enough to know not to move. He slowly raised his hands.
“You got the message?”
“Imperial heavy cruiser and two escorts in orbit, yes,” said the pilot.
“What are your orders?”
“To stay here, and, if the ship is taken, it’s every man for himself.”
“Not a lot of loyalty.”
“I’m not from Alcaz. I’m just a pilot.”
“Well then, just a pilot, squawk on the emergency band and wait here until the police come and find you.”
The pilot reached out and punched a large red button to his left and sat back with a sigh. The tower would notify police security of an emergency squawk from a vehicle parked where it shouldn’t be. He shook his head as he glanced up. He didn’t have to be told that the ship orbiting above them could blow him to vapor at will. Better a stint in prison than instant obliteration.
“Women?” asked Flandry.
“None this trip. Men for the mines and arena only.”
Flandry motioned for him to get out of the chair and follow him. When they reached the two unconscious technicians, the pilot asked, “Guards?”
“Dead.” With a wave of his pistol, Flandry said, “Sit.”
The pilot complied, knowing that there was nowhere to run.
Flandry returned to the steps and shouted, “It’s all clear.”
Laren nodded, hurried down the basement stairs, then led the others to the surface. When all the slaves were above ground, Flandry said, “I expect that some of you would just as soon be gone before the police arrive. Go now.” Instantly, a dozen men started moving towards various exit routes from this old sector of the city. “The rest of you would probably be served by waiting. There’s a bounty on Alcaz slavers in the Empire, and if the police aren’t too corrupt, you’ll get your reward. If they are corrupt . . . just tell them you were freed by agents of the Inspector General’s Corp and that we’re still around.”
The result was instantaneous. The men started to ask questions, but Flandry cut them off with a wave of his hand.
“Laren, come with me,” he said and moved away from the warehouse and shuttle.
When he was a hundred yards away from the group, he asked the former Marine, “What do you do for work?”
“I was running a gang—work gang—out of the harbor, labor and repair. Had twenty five boys loading and unloading cargo, doing ship refitting, anything that paid and wasn’t illegal”—seeing a skeptical expression on Flandry, he added—“too illegal. I’ve had a nice little shop for about ten years.”
“How’d you end up here?”
“My son got married; after the bride and groom went off on their honeymoon, me and some of the boys went out drinking. I wandered off to take a piss behind the bar and someone hit me from behind. I woke up here.” He glanced around. “I expect that most of the boys at the party think I went home.” He glanced at the sky, still hours before dawn. “I’ll be expected at the shop an hour after sunrise. An hour after that, my boys will come looking for me.” He looked at Flandry and said, “Hell of a night.”
“It’s not over,” said Flandry. He activated his com and said, “Send it down.”
Turning to Laren, he said, “I have a job for you.”
“Already got a job,” said Laren. “I owe you and if I can help I will, but my crew needs me.”
“The Empire needs you,” said Flandry. “Consider your military service reactivated. If you want the paperwork, I can have it for you in an hour.”
Laren’s expression remained neutral, but Flandry could see from the set of his eyes that he was not happy with what he had just heard. “What was your rank,” asked the Deputy Inspector General.
“I’d just made sergeant before Vindabar.”
“That will do for now, Sergeant.” He keyed his com and asked, “You got that?”
“What size?” asked the voice in his ear.
“Bigger than me by a little.”
“Got one in back that will fit.”
Flandry cocked his head slightly, then smiled at Laren. “Relax, Sergeant; I’m only going to need you for an hour or so. After that, we’ll discuss some things.”
A few minutes later, a high-pitched humming signaled the approach of two fast police cruisers. “Wait here,” said Flandry.
He hurried over to intercept the first cruiser as it touched down next to the transport. The door opened and two police officers stepped down as Flandry held up his identification. After a moment of conversation, their body language signaled the change in attitude of the two officers. They lost their aggressive stance and became deferential to the point of almost falling over themselves. Flandry returned to where Laren stood, saying, “The boys will be rewarded for their trouble.”
Dryly, Laren said, “We don’t get our share?”
“Not to worry,” replied Flandry with a slightly crooked smile. “You’ll be taken care of, Sergeant.”
“One hour or so of a sergeant’s pay . . . that might cover the price of a drink . . . ”
A moment later, a deeper humming from above heralded the approach of a small shuttle. It was a shining new beauty, the best the Empire had produced, exactly what you’d expect to ferry high-ranking officials and officers of the Empire to and from capital-class ships.
The port side hatch dropped down, forming steps up a ramp to the shuttle. A young woman in the uniform of a Naval Ensign stepped out and saluted as Flandry hurried to the entrance. He absently returned the salute and said, “This is Sergeant Laren. Get us up!”
She followed the two men into the ship and indicated that Laren should sit in the rear leftmost seat, just before a doorway into the rear cargo area. She sat in the pilot’s seat and took the shuttle up while Flandry entered the cargo area. “Where to, sir?” she shouted.
From within the hold, he said, “Head for the Governor’s Complex.”
“Aye, sir.”
The shuttle arched into the sky, heading eastward, toward the rising sun. It would be just after breakfast when they reached the capital.
Flandry emerged from the rear of the shuttle, and Laren saw him clean-shaven and looking fresh, wearing a spotless and smartly fitting service uniform, the traditional khaki worn by all navy ranks when not in full dress or fatigues. As he sat, he said to Laren, “There’s a sonic shower back there and a set of service fatigues that should fit you.”
Laren didn’t need to be told twice.
Less than fifteen minutes later, he emerged cleaner than he had been in two days, in a service fatigue uniform.
Flandry nodded once in approval. “As there are no non-commissioned ranks in the Intelligence Corp, you’ve been promoted. So you jump a couple of pay grades. An ensign’s pay for an hour or so should buy two rounds.”
Laren could only smile.
Flandry motioned for him to sit. “I don’t have much time. As I said, you’re only working for me for an hour or so. I am not really going to press you into service. I just needed you aboard to talk.”
“You just could have asked.”
“You might have said no,” said Flandry with a faint smile.
Nodding once, Laren said, “You’re right.”
“How would you like to work for me?”
“Doing what?”
“This cold war we’re in with the Merseians is as deadly in its own fashion as the old shooting war was, just with not as high a body count, not as many things get blown up.”
“That’s a good thing, I guess.”
“Maybe,” said Flandry. “Time was, you’d have never heard of Alcaz slavers in this sector, let alone see them boots on ground, taking citizens for bounty.”
“Time was, there was an Imperial fleet guarding this sector,” said Laren. “The regional militia is a joke and the planetary police are worse. Seems like the Empire has cut back on a few things.”
Wryly, Flandry laughed. “True. Still, we’re attempting to set things right as best we can. And we need reliable men.”
“We just met in a slavers pen, Deputy Inspector General Dominic Flandry,” said Laren.
“Flandry will do.”
“You know I’m reliable in a brawl, but what else do you know?”